


Blood of My Blood

by afterandalasia



Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon)
Genre: Anger, Biting, Brother/Sister Incest, Bruises, Canon Universe, Community: dragon_kink, Consent Issues, Dirty Praise Kink, F/M, Hate Sex, Internal Conflict, Lust/Hate, Mutually Dubious Consent, Pre-Episode: s04e12-s04e13 Maces and Talons, Race To The Edge, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Subspace, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:54:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: In the day, she smiles at him, plays her part as the prodigal sister finally having seen the light and found her brother and her blood. Only in the night can she allow herself to hate him, to hate what he has done to her and what he has turned her into. So she hates him wrapped up in his arms and safe in his hold, and hates herself for never slipping from his arms and leaving. Every night, she knows, she could.





	Blood of My Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> Okay, the "Choose not to warn" is specifically related to the fact that this is very dubcon in one direction, and pretty dubcon in the other as well. There's no underage or character death, and the closest we get to violence is some very, very rough sex. 
> 
> I did not intend for this fic to get as long as it did, but there you go.
> 
> Not at allllll related to my Frozen/HTTYD crossoververse. This is a stand-alone fic.

He is her brother.

(A brother she never knew. A brother who set her to sea as a child and left her to die, who killed their father and severed every tie she had. A brother she would never have known about would it not have been for Hiccup’s words.)

The Hunters fear him more than they fear Windshear, as foolish as they are. When one of the Hunters leers at her, it is Dagur who snarls at him to back down; when Ryker insinuates that she is more devoted to her dragon than to humans, it is Dagur who argues while Heather looks at him disdainfully.

(She does not need his protection. He always says that she is _his_ sister, and there is a note of possession in his voice. She would rather belong to Windshear, if she must belong to anyone or anything in this world.)

He is all that she has.

(Because he has severed her every bond, spilled every drop of blood around her.)

When Ryker announces with a smirk that they are to be moved to a ship with fewer bunks, that they will need to share rooms with Hunters, Heather snaps that she would rather stay with Windshear in the hold. But it is Dagur who rages, who says that she will share with him and with no other, that he will not put his sister in the way of the animals that Ryker employs.

(She is so furious with him for making the decision for her. But it has been _so long_ since there has been anyone who wished to protect her, anyone who looked at her with fondness in their eyes.)

 

 

 

 

 

He wraps his arms around her in the narrow shared bed that Ryker has given them – doubtless Ryker thinks that this is somehow funny, tormenting these strange siblings who have joined them and who now help them fight against the Dragon Riders. Heather shudders as Dagur curls close around her, a sneer curling at her lip, but what she hates the most is the warmth that spreads within her at his touch. How much she has missed the warmth of human touch, soft human skin instead of a dragon’s scales.

His knees tuck behind hers, and he nuzzles against the back of her neck in his sleep. His arm tightens around her, muscles a solid weight, as if he is worried that even in his sleep she will somehow slip away. Once or twice, he mumbles her name, damp against her skin.

She does not sleep, the first night. There is a knot in her stomach and a pain in her head, and she wants to cry with relief at being held and to tear Dagur’s skin from his bones for the knowledge that he has made the very wounds that his touch now seems to wish to heal.

The second night, she considers going to Windshear, even considers abandoning her search for Viggo and leaving the Hunters behind. She has lived this long alone; she will manage it again. But when Dagur curls close and wraps his arm around her, twining his hot fingers between her cold ones, she shivers and squeezes her eyes tightly closed and bites her lip until she tastes blood.

She falls asleep, in Dagur’s arms, and for the first time in what feels like years is not plagued by nightmares of fire and blood.

They do not talk about it. Dagur seems to assume that she will allow him to curl around her, clutch her to his chest in the night; Heather cannot bring herself to give words to the touch. As if speaking about it would somehow make it real; as long as it is hidden within the confines of their shared room, it does not truly exist.

She comes to ache for the moments in the dark, when she starts awake from dreams only to be grounded by Dagur’s arms around her, his breath steady and warm on her skin, the thin mattress bowing to roll them ever closer together.

In the day, she smiles at him, plays her part as the prodigal sister finally having seen the light and found her brother and her blood. Only in the night can she allow herself to hate him, to hate what he has done to her and what he has turned her into. So she hates him wrapped up in his arms and safe in his hold, and hates herself for never slipping from his arms and leaving. Every night, she knows, she could.

And she cannot bring herself to.

 

 

 

 

 

She awakes one morning to feel Dagur’s cock against her ass, and it takes only a heartbeat for her to fully realise that _is_ what it is and for her eyes to snap open.

Dagur mumbles and shifts in his sleep, grinding against her. She can feel the heat of his skin through the light tunic and leggings that he wears to bed, feel the solid shaft against her skin. It feels as if all of her awareness is centred on him, on the length of his cock as it shifts between her buttocks and almost against her cunt, on his breath against her back and his mouth, hot and wet, brushing against the back of her neck in his sleep.

Whatever he says, it is unintelligible. Heather bites the inside of her mouth, unsure if she should move, if she should wake him. What could she say? She knows that men cannot help such reactions from their body, knows that it might well have nothing to do with her presence in the bed at all.

(Knows that it _might_. Wonders if it is her body against his chest, her thighs against his, whether he can smell her skin as clearly as she can smell his. Whether she is all that he has, as well.)

With a stifled snort, Dagur jerks awake, and Heather quickly closes her eyes again and returns to feigned sleep. She cannot bring herself to talk to Dagur about sleeping in his bed (or perhaps it is him sleeping in her bed, she is not even sure); she certainly could not find words for his cock against her ass.

Dagur mumbles a curse, and sits up; she feels the ache of cold air against her back. Her eyes open again, and though she does not turn over she can hear and feel as he shuffles to the edge of the bed. A rustle of fabric, and for a moment she wonders if he will take himself in hand, if the fingers that had just been twined into hers would wrap around the heat of his shaft and–

But no. She hears him rise, and begin to dress, and when she hears the clink of his armour she allows herself to ‘awaken’ in turn.

Nothing is said. It never is.

 

 

 

 

 

She dreams of arms around her, of bare skin against hers. She dreams of being kissed; it has been so long since she has been kissed, since there have been lips against hers or the touch of a tongue in her mouth. She dreams of hands between her thighs, of pleasure rolling through her body, of the warm firm press of a cock between her thighs, but even in her dreams the shadowy figure will not enter her, and she fumbles awake wet and aching and burningly unsatisfied.

Her hand has crept between her thighs in her sleep, outside her clothes but still pressed to her clit. Worse, she can feel the hot press of Dagur’s cock again, not only hot but twitching against her, along her ass to rub against her cunt, close to her entrance.

Heather turns her head towards the pillow, heart pounding in her ears, and dares not move her hand. If Dagur were to wake, would he be able to tell? Would he feel the heat, the wetness, that she can feel between her thighs? It seems unbearably obvious, as if her own body is betraying itself as clearly as his does, but perhaps that is nothing but the pain of her own attention.

It has been so long since her body has felt the release of orgasm. Alone, at least, she was free to touch herself whenever she wished or needed. Now she sleeps in her brother’s arms, and her cunt aches for even her own hand.

She can feel her chest aching with each breath, as if there are iron bands clasped tighter around it than Dagur’s arm could ever be. Slowly, carefully, she slides her hand up the precious few inches so that she can slide it beneath her clothes, against her skin. Dagur shifts, pushing his hips against her, and when she tries to breathe deeply it is the scent of him that fills her nostrils, their mingled sweat upon the same pillow. But she _needs_ this, already wound so tight that she can barely stop herself from shaking, and finally with trembling fingers she strokes at her clit.

From the first touch, she knows that it will not take long, her cunt wet and her heart pounding, her thighs still warm from the memory of ghostly hands upon them in her dream. Dagur’s arm holds her in place as her fingers work almost feverishly, the solid muscle against her, his fingers still twined in her other hand. She has to be careful that her fingers do not brush the head of his cock where it presses against her, and where it nudges almost at her entrance through her clothes she cannot even slip her fingers inside herself to relieve the aching need.

But just her fingers, gods, her fingers are enough, and she holds her breath as orgasm crashes through her, silver and gold lights behind her eyes and her thighs tightening around her hand as wave on wave leaves her fighting not to shiver. Only when she is sure that she can lie still does she dare to breathe again, but she knows that she is melting into Dagur’s arms, against the wall of his chest and the seat of his thighs, knows that her underclothes are soaked and her leggings as well might be damp against him. But it is night, she tells herself, and it will be gone by morning. He never needs to know.

She falls asleep with sweat and sex still bitter on her tongue, and her eyes stinging with relief. Dagur’s hand is still clasped firmly in hers.

 

 

 

 

 

Days pass, and nothing is said. Then she awakes again to Dagur’s erection, this time pressed along her back, and his hand clamped to her thigh and damp with sweat.

 _“Heather,”_ he murmurs, and she knows that he is asleep and could be dreaming of anything but it still gives her a possessive pang to know that her name is the one on his lips. He squeezes her thigh, and his beard scratches at her shoulders, just painful enough to make the hairs on the back of her arms stand on her end and her throat go dry.

With a snort, he jerks against her, and she pretends to be asleep as she has each time that he wakes like this. If he has noticed the pattern that Heather sleeps later on such days, he has not said anything, and Heather still thinks that it is unlikely at best.

Again, he mutters curses, sits up and moves to the side of the bed. Heather waits for the usual footsteps, the rustling of clothing as he dresses and adjusts himself to hide the hardness of his cock. But this time it does not come. She hears the movement of skin-on-skin, and realises with a jolt of disgust and a thrill between her thighs that Dagur is touching himself.

She hears his breathing quicken, the sound of his hand on his cock. Wonders whether he looks, or closes his eyes, or fixes his gaze elsewhere as his hand works. What his cock _looks_ like; she has felt it against her, could guess its length and its girth, but has not seen it by any sort of light. The heat grows in her cunt, and she feels herself growing wetter at the rhythmic sound, the catch in Dagur’s throat.

He breathes a single word: “Hiccup…”

Anger flashes through her, stronger than she had even thought it could, and before she can think or Dagur can react she has rolled over, knelt up behind him, and pressed herself against his back. Her mouth falls behind his ear, but more pertinently her hand wraps over his, around his cock. With his hand there as well, she has no hope of encircling him, but her grip is firm and Dagur makes a strangled sound as her left hand comes up to wrap around his throat.

“Were you thinking of him, brother?” she breathes into his ear. His skin is slick with sweat, and he does not resist as she pumps his hand against his length. A glance down, and she feels another clench of arousal at the sight of Dagur’s cock, flushed red and curved slightly upwards, thick and hard in his hand and shining with precum. She works his hand along it, slower than she thought she heard him moving. “Were you thinking of _Hiccup’s_ hand? Of _Hiccup’s_ mouth?”

She has long known that Dagur is obsessed with Hiccup, beyond rational behaviour. She had suspected that it was like this, that Dagur’s yearning was sexual as well, but had never been able to prove it.

“You are not his, Dagur.” Her voice turns vicious, snake-sharp, as she quickens the movements of his hand. His cock twitches readily. She does not bother to wait for his reply. “You are _mine_.”

She bites his ear, and Dagur stifles a yelp as he comes, spattering across his hand and his leg in sticky white streaks. His breath is heaving, his hand shaking, and Heather wipes her palm on his bare thigh as she releases his throat once again.

Her hands tremble as well, and she can only make them stop when she forces them into fists. She cannot explain why her heart pounds in her chest at the smell of her brother’s come, at the sight of his cock slowly softening, his flushed cheeks and shocked eyes as he turns towards her.

“Get dressed,” she says in her normal voice, hard and steady. She turns, and stands on the other side of the bed, as if it had not happened at all;

(It should not have happened at all.)

she reaches for her clothes;

(still wet between her thighs, yearning for orgasm as hard as she ever has)

Dagur says nothing, but she hears him rise to his feet in turn, hears the brush of a cloth on skin as he tries to clean himself up;

(smears of his come still on her fingertips, beneath her nails; she would not have been able to remove it without scratching it into his skin)

and without a word she leaves him in the rotten hollow room with the bed that he has made for them.

 

 

 

 

 

When they return to their rooms that night, dripping with sweat and exhausted from another day of rounding up dragons – Nadders, this time – for the Hunters, the morning seems so far away that Heather does not even think of it. Not until Dagur’s hands come to rest on her hips, and he kisses the back of her neck, electric-sharp and stealing the breath from her lungs.

“I knew,” he breathes against her skin, between wet swipes of his tongue. “I knew that you felt it. We were made to be together, you and I.”

“Dagur.” His name catches in her throat as his hands roam across her waist, pressing through the leather of her vest and avoiding her armour. His teeth scrape against her skin, and she clenches her jaw so as not to whimper at the touch, arousal pulsing through her.

So long, so _long_ since she has felt hands on her skin.

Her head fogs, thoughts tangling in each other, and before she can steel herself to push him away he undoes the clasp on her armour and it drops to the floor with a clatter. Dagur spins Heather around, pushes her up against the wall, and drops to his knees in front of her before she can do anything other than hiss in surprise.

He drags down her clothes in one sweep, baring her from the waist down. The cool air brushes her skin, and gods, she did not even realise how wet she was, not until Dagur is kissing her thigh and pinning her hips against the rough wood of the wall.

Her clothes are still tangled about the top of her boots, and she almost stumbles, grabbing Dagur’s shoulders to steady herself. She hates him, hates that he does not _ask_ , that he _assumes_ , but she remembers the feel of her hand around his on his cock, the way that her thighs had trembled as she walked away.

Dagur’s tongue drags over her cunt, and she makes a choking sound. He nuzzles into her with an appreciative moan, tracing her folds, tasting her, and she moves one of her hands from his shoulder to his hair, to wind tightly into it.

She lets her head fall back against the wall. Dagur moans and grunts, and each sound reverberates through her, burrs against her cunt and makes her more aware of her own throbbing heartbeat. He thrusts his tongue into her, beard a rough-raw feeling against her skin, and she has never had a beard against her cunt before but it only feels better, the sting of almost-pain against the pleasure, a low persistent grind against every sensitive inch of her.

She can feel the orgasm building within her, feel herself growing wetter against him, and she tightens her grip on his hair. His tongue is not enough, but at least it is something inside her, and she gives in and grinds against his face with a breathless sigh that turns to tight pants.

He says something that might be her name; she cannot even tell when he is muffled against her. His hands feel so tight on her hips that they might bruise, but she plants her feet and pushes to rut against his face, feeling the tight-wound pleasure burning to be released inside her.

“ _Yes._ ” It is the first clear word that Dagur has said since he knelt to bury his face in her cunt. “Come for me, sister.”

He does not even say her name, and Heather shudders but cannot help how it goes straight to her cunt. She suppresses a groan, tries not to let it become a whimper, but then Dagur’s tongue reaches into her again and she cannot hold back the orgasm that hits her, like a full-body blow, pleasure so intense that it is almost painful as it hits over and over, her knees going weak and tears sparking in her eyes as her body shudders and rushes and the breath is driven from her lungs.

For a moment, everything seems to almost go black behind her eyes, and everything is far away and dim. Then she swallows, blinks away the fog of climax, and realises that Dagur is still before her, pressing kisses to her slick thighs, his face wet with her. The final shiver that runs through her is not pleasure, not when her hands are wound in hair the colour of the blood that Dagur has spilled.

Is this more of a lie than the fact that she still intends to kill him? He is useful now, her way to the Hunters who accept him far more easily than they do her, but she knows that the day will come when he will not be. And she has always planned to kill him then, to see the betrayal in his eyes as she raises her axe. She wants him to know what it is to lose everything that he loves, to lose his family.

She wants to hurt him. She is not sure why there is guilt in her gut at the thought of this. Perhaps it is nothing more than the softness of orgasm that is still in her, the warmth that seems to spread down to her bones that have felt so cold for so many years.

Dagur slides up her body, panting, his lips shining. When Heather turns her face away, he kisses her neck instead, sucks at her skin, and she can feel his cock hard against her. A shallow thrust against her, and she gasps, and Dagur seems to take it as permission as he begins to pull off his own armour in turn.

“I knew it,” he murmurs against her. “I knew that you felt it, the spark between us.” His armour starts to fall to the floor, and she knows that she should stop him but her body is aching, his cock grinds hot against her, and even in the wake of orgasm she knows that she yearns for his touch. “You are a Berserker, Heather;” he makes it sound like a compliment, instead of her greatest horror; “you are one of us.”

She allows him to remove her clothing, to expose her skin, even if she turns her mouth away from him. He kisses her shoulders, her breasts, sucks her nipples to hardness and breathes that they are as perfect as the rest of her. There is something tender in the way that he undresses her, the way that his hands stroke over the curves of her calves, the way that he presses an almost-chaste kiss to her hip. Before she knows it, she is naked before him, and there is lust and hunger and love in his eyes as he strips off the last of his clothing, and she is not sure which part excites her and which part makes the hate stronger in her gut.

The ache in her cunt, longing to be filled. She knows she will not be able to look him in the eye, no matter how bitterly she wants to fuck him, no matter how her cunt clenches again at the sight of his cock hard and twitching for _her_ , for no other.

She winds up on her hands and knees, Dagur behind her, pressing kisses to her shoulders. His hand slides between her thighs, fingers searching for her clit, and her hands tighten on the sheets. Still she cannot speak, cannot do more than pant, sweat beading on her forehead and tickling on her back.

Dagur’s knees nudge her legs further apart, and then his cock brushes against her entrance and she makes a choking sound, already seeing stars behind her eyes. Gods, she should have known from the sight of him, from her hand over his, but he feels so _large_ against her, even the head of his cock stretching at her entrance.

“Do it,” she says, the first words that she has managed. She feels the touch of Dagur’s hand as he guides himself into her, and she rocks away because of the size of him, the thickness, her body struggling to stretch around him as he thrusts, shallow and repeated, against her.

Finally, with a grunt, he gets a firm grip on her hips and slides all the way inside. Heather moans, her arms feeling weak for a moment, as he _fills_ her, as if it is not just her cunt but her chest that he is somehow fixing the ache in. The tears feel wetter in her eyes, sparkle on her eyelashes as she stares at their shared pillow and their shared sheets, but all that she can feel is the hot full stretch of his cock, almost painfully deep, Dagur’s hips settling against her.

“Gods, Heather…” Dagur draws back and thrusts, and she cannot help the sharp sound that escapes her as his cock reaches every inch of her cunt, every fraction of her flesh. He is everywhere inside her, cock in her cunt and words in her head, and as he thrusts again and again, harder, she tightens her fists until her knuckles turn white and crack beneath her skin. She hears them only distantly.

His hands tighten on her hips, but even that cannot stop her from bucking in place with each thrust, his cock so large that it aches, that she knows she will feel this even beyond the walls of this room. She knows that will make it somehow more real, not some unspoken thing that has no more importance than a dream. Something between a moan and a sob escapes her, as Dagur bends to kiss her shoulders and her back, wet and panting, and she feels the shift in the angle of his cock as his hips move more shallowly against her.

“So perfect,” he murmurs against her skin, over the scars that the years have given her. His lips feel different as they move over them. “So _tight_ , Heather, you feel so _good_. It’s like they _know_ , isn’t it;” his words fracture against her back, and she pieces them together as his cock stretches her out, right on the edge of pain, so hot inside her that it almost seems to burn. “My cock and your cunt;” his teeth scrape her skin; “they were made to fit like this.”

“ _Yes_.” She cannot help the reply that she gasps out, as the angle of his cock only doubles the sensations, only presses him harder to the walls of her cunt. She rocks into his thrusts as one of his hands reaches round to stroke at her clit again, the other half-supporting his weight. But still he is such a solid mass against her back, his arm around her pinning her in place, as if she cannot escape his arms even though she knows that if she wanted to she could twist away in a heartbeat.

Dagur bites at the curve of her neck, and Heather whines; his hips increase their pace, uncomfortable but forcing pleasure through her body, making her thighs ache and her clit hard beneath his fingers, her breasts jarring with each thrust.

“Tell me,” Dagur says. “Tell me you feel it, sister. How perfect this is–” he muffles a grunt against her skin, and for a moment his hips buck against her and she thinks that he might come, but with a shudder he pulls back again. “–and you are.”

“I feel it.”

The words slip from her lips so easily, obedient to his orders. The next thing that Heather knows, Dagur is pushing her down into the bed, until her face is pressed into the pillow and his weight is on her shoulders. She almost cries out, from shock and from the bolt of pleasure that runs through her, but no, she cannot give voice to this, she cannot risk another knowing.

“Dagur!” she hisses.

“It’s alright,” he replies.

His voice is almost soothing, or would be were it not for the way that he has her pinned to the bed, her knees still bent and her cunt offered up to him. She feels almost powerless beneath his weight, and is horrified by how good that feels, to not have to fight and struggle as he pumps into her. She moans against the bed, weakly, smelling them both on the pillow and all-too-aware of how wet she is, dripping down her thighs, each thrust a wet smack of skin on skin. There is something light and floating about the feel of his hand on her shoulders, the pressure of the sheets beneath her knees and chest, rough against her cheek. Her thoughts are disconnecting, pulling apart, until all that she can think of is the rough, raw pleasure as Dagur fucks her, grunting, murmuring her name as if it is something beautiful on his tongue.

She wants to writhe, to fight beneath him, but her body will not respond and instead she moans, low and broken by a particularly hard thrust of his hips against hers. She can feel the muscles of his thighs against hers, the strength in his hand; she has seen the lines of his muscles and knows how much power lies curled beneath his skin. His hips slam against hers, hard, _painfully_ hard, but it gives her a rush that her hand never could, and with a distant shudder Heather realises that she can feel the tightness of orgasm building in her again, the tightening in her cunt, the slow-building heat in her muscles.

Dagur gives a stifled grunt as he comes, clutching his hips to hers with shallow thrusts that are little more than twitches, his fingertips pressing hard into her skin. She feels the hot rush of his seed inside her, tight around his cock, splattering hot against the lips of her cunt and her upper thighs as Dagur’s hips shudder in place.

Dagur’s hand releases from between her shoulders, but she does not rise, not yet, as Dagur slumps so that the solid warmth of his body is so close to hers that she can feel it against her back. The only movement her body wants to make would be to push into him, and she hates herself for it, hates the ache in her chest to curl against him and be held, to bask in the twisted obsession that Dagur might just call love.

He pulls her hair aside, roughly, almost tugging it away so that he can kiss the back of her neck. Heather pushes herself up on her hands again, panting, forcing her arms not to shake and her body not to shiver as Dagur remains inside her, his touch still hot and full.

“Gods, Heather,” Dagur says. His voice is still muted, for him at least, and Heather is abruptly and painfully aware of how thin the walls between the rooms can be.

One of his hands reaches round, brushes over her heaving breasts, down the line of her stomach to settle between her thighs. She can feel the mixture of her own wetness and his come, sticky on his fingers as he seeks out her clit again. The circles that he makes are clumsy, his fingers slipping against her, but with his cock still inside her she can feel herself still wound tight. In a dozen ways, she could make him stop, but she lets him rub at her clit and tilts her neck towards his mouth, where she can feel him breathing hard against her.

“I understood when I saw you again,” he says, his hand finding some sort of rhythm again. She snatches in her breath, and his fingers quicken. “That we were _made_ for each other, _made_ for this. That you are the most perfect of Berserkers in spirit.”

A keening noise threatens to escape her, until she bites her lip to hold it back. Dagur’s arm feels like it is supporting her weight, hot iron down her belly to cradle her sex in his hand, and she drops to her left elbow as with her right hand she clutches at his wrist, not even guiding but seeking his support. She is shaking, so close to orgasm that it aches, that all of the focus in her body is on her clit and the seeping wetness on her thighs and Dagur’s cock slowly softening inside her.

“You deserve this,” breathes Dagur. His words run straight through her. “You tasted so good… I want to feel you come again.” Fingers quickening, he presses to her back, surrounding her; it is as if every inch of her skin is screaming from the touch. It sears against her flesh. “I want to _feel_ it, feel you come around my cock;” he shifts, nips at her ear, and a flash of bright pleasure runs through her but does not tip her over the edge completely. His tone turns encouraging, hot and soft against her ear. “You can do it,” he says, almost purrs, the sound so alien on his tongue that it almost frightens her. “Let go, Heather. Sister. Come for me again.”

He usually barks his orders, shouts them to the barely-listening Hunters, but the soft words on his lips are still an order all the same. Heather feels herself linger for a moment at the edge of climax, and shudders in disgust at her own body just as she crashes down into it, her mind flaring blank. Her cunt clenches around Dagur’s cock, and she bucks her hip against his fingers, panting so desperately that it is almost a sob, eyes squeezed shut, pleasure a series of tight waves that almost hurt in their intensity.

Her arms give way completely as the last waves of her orgasm rush through her, and Dagur pulls her down to the bed, wrapping his arm tightly around her again. Finally his cock slips out of her, and she can feel fresh drips of his come on her thighs and the strange hollowness as her cunt is left empty again. He strokes her thigh, wet-fingered, and she can feel the sweat on his skin, the shift of his hard muscles as he curls around her.

“So perfect, Heather,” he tells her softly. “So _Berserker_. The fire within you.”

Heather swallows, throat tight, and for the first time in so many days she pushes herself out of his arms to sit up on the side of the bed. She can hear the slip and movement of her cunt, her wetness and Dagur’s come mixed together, and is not sure whether the clench in her gut is nausea or not. “I should clean up,” she says, and her voice comes out rough but steadier than she might have thought it would.

The bed rocks beneath her as Dagur sits up, strokes her shoulder, and presses a close-mouthed kiss to her skin again. “I’ll get you water. Don’t worry, sister;” perhaps he misses her shiver, or misunderstands it. “I’ll take good care of you.”

 

 

 

 

 

She wonders what she has done, what she has started. But she does not stop it; gods, no, she cannot make herself so much as want to stop it, the way that Dagur fucks her rough and tender both together. It becomes routine between them, becomes assumed, that if they are both in the cabin they will end up fucking in some way or another. Unspoken, unchallenged.

Dagur presses kisses and bites to her shoulders as he fucks her from behind, leaving bruises on her back and an ache in her hips that does not fade, that linger on her skin like a whispering reminder in her head. Sometimes it amazes her that none seem to realise, none seem to see what she feels must be seared upon her skin.

(She covers herself from head to toe, from neck to wrist, and there are more bruises on her skin from dragons than from Dagur’s hand or mouth. But she feels them all the same, knows where each one came from.)

He pins her to the bed, seemingly more forcefully each time, harder on her skin each time that he sees how hard it makes her come. Even when it is his mouth at her cunt, his fingers leave bruises on her hips, and she muffles the sound of her orgasm against her wrist as his ragged beard paints pain and pleasure on her skin. When she takes him into her mouth, she closes her eyes, loses herself in the smell of his skin and his sex, one of his hands rough in her hair and the other tender as it cups her jaw. It makes her mouth ache, the size of his cock between her lips, and she is sure that she cannot be good but he whispers and moans over and over that she is, that her mouth feels perfect on his cock.

He ruts against her face as he comes, and she chokes and sputters on the taste of him. But there is something about the corded strength in his arms, the adoration in his voice, and it always leaves her wet before he even pushes her down to bury his tongue and his fingers in her. When his touch is tightest, when it winds through her into pain, the burning touch feeds the heat in her cunt, the throbbing in her gut.

(She knows it, _knows_ that it is his rough force that makes her come so hard. When he fucks her until she cannot think, when there is no room for thought around the pleasure, when he makes her come and come again and she wants to plead with him to stop but she cannot find her tongue and he urges her just once more, _just once more_. To fight him would be no problem, but in this he renders her helpless, and it terrifies her even as it leaves her a trembling mess in his arms.)

When he fucks her face-to-face she pulls him against her, buries his face in her shoulder where she can look past him and not see that it is him at all. She cannot but know it, not as his hands press her to the bed, as he mouths at her throat and bites at her earlobe, but if her eyes are on the wooden planks of the ceiling then they are not on him and all that she needs to feel is the weight of his muscle, the heat of his skin, the thickness of his cock that always seems to stretch her open.

But he learns, gods, he sees that she would rather be on her knees, without her saying a word he reads it in her actions and in how fast and how hard she comes for him. The harder he fucks her, the harder she comes; the sharper the bites that he presses to her skin, the more she shivers and breathes his name without even being able to give voice to it.

(It is her hand that guides his cock to her ass. He slicks his hand with her, slicks his cock, but still it burns and she pants and whimpers as he makes his way inside her. Over and over he whispers that she can take it, she can do it, his fingers on her clit and his skin scalding-hot as he thrusts. And she comes, comes hard, so hard that there are tears in her eyes and her arms would give way if Dagur were not holding her, pinning her to his chest in a band of muscle.)

Never does she let him touch her outside their room; once, in the hold, while she is washing Windshear, he catches her unaware and pushes her against the wall, his cock hard and hot against her hand where he presses his body against her. She pushes him away with a hissed admonition, and that night he fucks her harder than ever, until it leaves a throbbing pain inside her and she finds faint smears of blood in her clothes. But he obeys the unspoken rule, and outside nothing has changed, they stand the proscribed inches apart just as they always did.

The only other thing she will never let him do is kiss her mouth. It seems that he has kissed every other part of her, her breasts, her cunt, her thighs, her throat, and she has sucked his cock, but somehow she tells herself that if she has not tasted his lips, at least there is one thing, one thing remaining, that he will not take from her.

(That, he tries, again and again. When his mouth is dry, as if it was her own taste that would have repulsed her; when he forgets himself in the heat of it all; in the morning, drowsy though his cock is already hard, his lips trailing idly across her cheek. She pushes him away each time.)

He whispers that he can taste the Berserker in her. Promises that they will return triumphant to the tribe; he does not say whether he intends to present her as his sister or his lover. She knows that it does not matter, not when she will kill him before he ever sets foot upon the island again, but she still wonders with a twist of bitter amusement how he thinks this could ever work between them, beyond the walls of this room that the Hunters give them only reluctantly. For now, there are only the two of them that ever need to know, and one day she will spill his blood

(her blood, _their_ blood)

and then the secret will be hers alone, and if nothing else she knows that she is good at keeping secrets. It will die with him, and he will know what it is to lose everything in the world that he cares about.

But for now, she fucks him, and lets him fuck her, and when he licks his own seed from her thighs she shudders and whimpers at his touch. She lets him take out his fury on her skin when the Riders beat them again, and feels a bitter pleasure that her work has contributed to each of the Riders’ victories. And she lets him bathe her skin, dabbing at wounds when wild dragons – or the Dragon Riders – get the better of them, or washing the sweat and mingled signs of their sex from her thighs when she is too boneless and spent to rise.

(Once, only once, he tries to call her Heather the Unhinged again. She punches him in the jaw, in front of Riders who laugh and do not even bother to hide it. She has no name, no family; he has taken everything from her. So she shall remain _Heather_ , and that alone, nameless. He never raises the matter again.)

She focuses her thoughts on her target, on the mysterious Viggo Grimborn. Dagur is a distraction along the way, perhaps, but it is one she cannot bring herself to shake, until she stands before Viggo himself, his brown eyes piercing-sharp, and she is abruptly aware that she may no longer be the most intelligent person in the room. It is not something she is used to any more, and it is unsettling.

She can read in a heartbeat that Viggo would be willing to sacrifice anyone, including Ryker, and that his brother would mean no more to him than any other person. Even to her, it is chilling; she intends to kill Dagur, of course, but it is for what he has done, the pain that he has caused her, and not because she sees him as disposable as any other of the men. But she holds her tongue, steels her nerve, and calmly answers Viggo’s test.

Or at least, she thinks that she does. Before she knows it, she is captured, and Dagur cages her with fury in his eyes and betrayal radiating from his skin. One more time, desperately, she tries to appeal to him, to their shared blood, but when he refastens her manacles around the bar of the cage, the bite of pain is sharp and cold and terrible.

She wonders whether she should tell him, that Viggo will not care for him for a moment, that Dagur’s only use to the Hunters is for what he knows about Hiccup and the other Riders. Whether she should tell him that they will kill him. The impulse surprises her, knots in her gut, and she pushes it away again.

She tells herself that her bitterness is because her chance is slipping through her fingers. That if she will spill Dagur’s blood, it will have to wait longer, and that her shot at Viggo Grimborn is endangered altogether. But she knows that Hiccup will be coming, that the Riders will have their own plan of attack, and that all that she can do is trust them. She has helped them as much as she can, for months on months, and for all that it rankles to place her life in the hands of any others, at least it is _them_.

What comes to pass, she is not told. She is left in the cage, in the growing darkness, until Dagur returns with grim death in his eyes and an axe in his hand, two Hunters at his back. They escort her into the depths of the cave systems that riddle the mountain, until she can feel the heat in the stone around her, smell the lava far below. She knows of this spot, has heard of other Hunters who are escorted to it.

They do not return.

A strange leadenness fills her at the thought of dying. Of _finally_ dying, it somehow feels like, as if she has for years now tricked the gods themselves to cling to life, to the chance to kill the ones who so started her fall. As if the last three years have been nothing more than her plunging through the air, so that the weightlessness has become some new sort of normal, and finally the ground has come into view beneath her feet.

She stands at the edge of the precipice. Darkness swells beneath her, lava a faint glimmer at the bottom. If she is not dashed against the rocks, she will burn; whichever it is, she hopes that it is at least quick.

There is a crashing sound behind her. She turns to see the two Hunters dropping unconscious at Dagur’s feet, and he turns his angry gaze on her. Her heart flutters in her chest, and she wonders if for him, too, this has become personal. That he has realised how many times she has betrayed him, that he was nothing more than a tool for her to use – a weapon to turn against the Hunters, a shield to use against their wrath, and a body to fuck.

“Dagur…”

He raises the axe, two-handed, gaze steady. For the first time since entering the caves, she flinches, and turns her eyes away; somehow it feels worse to think that _he_ will be the one to kill _her_ , that he will complete his work to wipe out her island and she will never avenge her parents.

The manacles drop to the ground. Her hands are free.

Dagur whistles, and Heather hears the metallic sound of Windshear’s scales. She turns, heart in her throat, to see her dragon safe before her and not chained or killed or worse as she had assumed. Heather runs to throw her arms around Windshear, knowing where to touch to avoid the sharp edges of her scales, how to hold her safely. But then the rush of relief at having her dragon again fades, and she turns back to look at Dagur, already walking away.

He pauses, and looks back for one moment, an unreadable glare on his face. His message is clear: her time here is done.

Heather’s hand tightens on Windshear’s bridle, but she does not speak. They never have to.

There is only one place left for her to run. The Riders may share no blood, no kin, no history with her, but they do share one thing: dragons. They, if nowhere else, might be able to save her now.

She turns her back on Dagur

(on all she has left in the world, save for Windshear)

and runs.


End file.
